Home has never been warm inspite of the fire in hearth that has blazed for a decade the walls are painted in doubt and mirrors in blame the closet does not have enough space for all the skins owned and drawers over flow with chaos the hallways echo of insecurity as personal space collapses between five w's and one h
There's a happiness diffuser on ceiling of the lounge which doesn't work most days of the year and leaves behind barren hearts and plain faces and then some days it sprays happiness like it will never run out residents wear smiles and forget about hurting each other but it runs out very soon and other days it lets drops to seep out and diffuse into the air, a layer of happiness silently roams in the halls, the one we fail to notice, the one left unappreciated
A house is more than four walls and a roof more than just rooms with keyholes it is not what you make of it it is what it does to you
when you were a child you were told not to pluck the roses from your grandmother's garden she waters them with love and talks to them with her heart but you plucked one every summer and hid it in your diary
now the poems that you write have thorns in them but the words have a sweet fragrance that hides all the dullness those scars have left
your grandmother hands you a rose but you turn it down you say the petals are precious for your sinful fingers but she insists and says
'the thorns won't hurt you until you pester them to
the ink is yours and flowers just a muse
scars will fade away once you stop playing around with pain
only seventeen out of forty- three muscles are required to smile
poems don't define you, but you define your poems
and letting yourself breath is not a sin, but a right'
and you leave the garden with a tad bit of love in your heart, and a flower tucked behind your ear
/you can't write your destiny but you can adorn it with poems are (p)roses/
Thankyou everyone, you made yesterday- 10th January' 2021 the best birthday I have ever had. Special thanks to everyone in @18letterstoraika @/nashedis @writersbay I love you guys. ❤️
Monuments, centuries old all tell tales of people, kings, queens and slaves that lived within majestic walls of fame and torture; the dungeons have seen humans rot away alive and those buried in beds of white precious stone have lived in gold pennies and silver linings.
We walk on steps, elephants laiden with royals have walked upon! Our heart races backwards in time, mind runs into a pile of wonder as fingers trace faded art patterns on walls and eyes gawk at portraits of those who lived, by those who lived.
When was art born? Sometime, long before the lives of those who painted, constructed and carved stone into artifacts and hearts into stone.
Gardens extend as far as eyes reach with harems on far ends of empires, of all the empresses of one (great?) emperor.
History tells us a story, wealth saw those, who lived within castles and not even health saw those who lived in mud houses Pride brought down empires, wars killed humanity and selfishness ate up all the kings and now we walk amongst monuments, that cry more than they speak, tales of poisonous souls, that even killed the snakes when bitten and those with pure hearts were murdered by swords.
And now we walk, between worn out walls, with a different poem in our head- twisted and wrecked, like our history.
In the dusk of the moon, you weave of the poem of words that rhymes of hopes and mended hearts. With cheeks that still turn pink and butterflies that dance around my stomach pit. Lilac skies so in love they bloom while the sun goes by. Melancholy with periwinkles stare at the fathom of happiness, And you and me darling were still in love. You carry all the love in those palms and slip them down your pocket, Our love will never get old for it'll breathe between the rusted paper planes we threw by.
It comes to me singing with the air each night whispers them while I chug my sorrows down. They stick around my lips and take a tint back to you. Tucking me in memory of the love you bid me goodbye. Whiskey and poems have my melancholy known all this time.
'Right person, wrong time', A feeble excuse concocted for a feeble mind, Convincing a bitter boy blinded by insecurity, A comically common con, Wincing, the boy now in pseudo-pain, Causing him to lose the bet to be better, gambling with time and the devil, Time is irresponsible, for time cannot feel, Misguided boy, touching a woman does not 'seal the deal', Heal yourself first young man, or your zealous touch will cause hurt, and the agony shall cling to your heels, For affection exists in realm beyond physics, felt, but not fully felt, if you feel affection is physical my friend, pull your pants back up, and listen well.